


~insert something meaningful here~

by watashi_no_akuma_to_notatakai



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: M/M, Really shitty and last minute like legit not worth the time tbh, idk - Freeform, just a little hash of headcanons???, send help, tiny sentence on the wedding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 20:34:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3354398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watashi_no_akuma_to_notatakai/pseuds/watashi_no_akuma_to_notatakai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remember those shitty acrostic poems you wrote in elementary school? Yeah. This is one of those.</p>
            </blockquote>





	~insert something meaningful here~

**Author's Note:**

> So I woke up this afternoon snuggled into my pillow, mumbled 'happy Valentine's Day' to myself, turned to look at my iPad, yelled 'shit!' and realized I had nothing written for Murphamy today. So I spent the next hour in bed trying to figure out something to write but it turned super angsty and shitty. so I erased all of that and came up with this. Sorry it sucks, I'm not a poet, or even a good writer, but I had to give you something. Happy Valentine's Day!

 

> _"I thought that this wouldn't hurt a lot, I guess not." Kids by MGMT_
> 
>  

* * *

 

 

 **V** is for the vague scent of vanilla that wafts from Bellamy's skin when Murphy gets close enough to the notch below his jaw. The juncture between his Adam's apple and collarbone, where Murphy wishes he could burrow into the heady heat, crawl deep between the layers of muscle and ligament, and rest there for the remainder of his existence.

 **A** is for almost burning to death. When Bellamy implanted the bright idea of having sex in the kitchen, and Murphy had been far too enraptured by the traces of sunlight creeping across Bellamy's skin to deny him. They fucked like animals on the counter, the table, the stovetop. And through the power of some vague god, Murphy's left ass cheek had managed to gain enough intelligence to turn on the electric stove. From then, Murphy had only the next twenty seconds to realize that the heat growing beneath his palms did not stem from his stunning arousal.

 **L** is for the long days, the loud ones. Where Murphy shortly contemplates letting things go, but Bellamy's smirk blows the muses of cooperation away with the dust. These are days where nothing but their own bones remains unbroken, and the promises traded through subtly bitten lips in the soft space between waking and sleep, seemed like a script written for someone else. Anyone else, really.

 **E** is for dropping everything. Because when Murphy answers a number he doesn't recognize, and tinny reception across the line tells him Bellamy has been hit by a car, Murphy doesn't have enough air in his lungs to keep the blood pumping through his veins, let alone a solid grip on the phone. So when he makes that twenty minute commute to the hospital in under ten, hands shaking like it's below zero, and finds Bellamy with a broken arm, a shit-eating smirk and a half-assed excuse about being distracted by a stray cat, Murphy punches him. Several times. Hard. And he doesn't care that he is crying a little or that the nurse in the room looks at him like he's crazy, because to him it makes perfect sense. No one but Murphy is allowed to hurt the son of a bitch grimacing on the hospital bed. And hurting him stops Murphy's hands from shaking.

 **N** is for needy. The pale sun pursues it's goal of entering the room through firmly sealed drapes, and manages to peek through the obscure cracks. It's winter, and Murphy quarantines himself in his room, nose dripping, head pounding, an unnatural aversion to sunlight, touch, and sound, leeching into his bones. Heavy snow clots the window frame outside, heavy memories in the form of nostalgia hinders his breathing, and Murphy thinks that maybe he is suffocating. He hates being sick, hates depending on someone that is not himself, but when every strained movement is a siren call to drown, Murphy can't help letting a few tears leak onto Bellamy's stomach, along with other fluids, as the taller brushes strings of Murphy's damp hair back. "It's okay to need me." He says. And Murphy doesn't believe him, but his fingers curl tight into the fabric of Bellamy's shirt anyways.

 **T** is for teeth. Bellamy's canines sink into the firm flesh of his shoulder, fire advancing along the nerves down his spine. Fingers twine into the thickness of Murphy's scalp. Bellamy tugs, twirls his fingers into hooks, and it's unhinging. But it's his teeth that consume him, nibbling at his cartilage, the slender incline of his neck, his shoulder blade. They nip at the ridges, soft rises and dips in his skin and Murphy thinks he knows what it is like to go insane. He is reminded of teeth weeks after, months after, when even with the bruises long past faded, Murphy feels as if the marks are still there, announcing to the entirety of the world exactly who Murphy belongs to.

 **I** is for idiots. Because who gets a tattoo for their boyfriend without _asking_ their boyfriend first? Apparently, Bellamy. And when Murphy first sees his name in tiny cursive on the inward bend of Bellamy's hip, he sticks his finger in his mouth and attempts to rub it off, not even half-convinced that it is real.

It takes a week for him to start talking to Bellamy again, but by then the shock has worn off and Murphy grudgingly admits that he doesn't actually hate it. Murphy makes it clear that he is not getting one for Bellamy, but the darker boy doesn't expect him too. And eventually Murphy finds himself tracing the letters of Bellamy's name on his skin in the quietest of moments, wondering if he might as well get it inked, because it's already a permanent part of him.

 **N** is for never again. Never again will Murphy put his trust in Bellamy's sense of aesthetic. Murphy had specifically chosen a nude peach for the decorative napkins, and Bellamy had come back with a box full of something more alike to spoiled pumpkin guts. Clarke remedies the situation and chastises Bellamy for his incompetence, while Murphy tries to fend off an emotional breakdown over the seating arrangements. Murphy avoids eye contact and apologizes too much and Bellamy wonders why they don't just elope and be done with it, but he holds Murphy's sweaty hand and follows every shaky instruction religiously from then on. 

 **E** is for elusive. Somehow whole boxes go missing and appear out of nowhere when they move into the new place. Murphy looks at the tall ceilings and rustic staircase in a new light, wondering if he has bought them a haunted house. Bellamy distracts him by putting the wedding gifts in all the wrong places and placing kitchen chairs where the living room is supposed to be. They take a break from unpacking by christening four out of eight rooms in a span of two hours. The rough floorboards leave semi-splinters in Murphy's back and Bellamy chuckles as he winces. The house feels warm in the spring afternoon, and Murphy is reminded of a castle as he hears his laughter echo all the way down the hall.

 **S** is for studying. Murphy gives Bellamy a sloppy hand job on the new couch while sighing softly into the skin of Bellamy's burning neck. Murphy's voice is low as he recites the first theorists under the Chigaco school of thought, in preparation for his upcoming AP Law exam. Bellamy doesn't seem to notice. The jagged breathing makes it hard for Murphy to remember which theory Travis Hirschi had a role in, and Murphy ends up discarding it altogether. He straddles Bellamy, still meeting his thrusts with his hand, going from the importance of social bonds to how much he _wants to see Bellamy come_.

And with that, he does. Bellamy's breath is hot against his chest as he leans into him.

"Happy Valentine's Day." Murphy's voice is hushed as he mumbles into the crown of Bellamy's hair.

"Yeah. But you know, it's actually Social Control theory."

Murphy bristles, "You're wrong. It's Bond theory. Social Control came after."

Bellamy looks up from the sticky mess of his lap with a sigh.

"Also. Valentine's Day was yesterday..." Murphy blanks for a moment, then checks his phone with the hand not covered is his boyfriends release. The date is February 15th.

"Fuck you." He groans, dropping the phone back on the couch, voice reverberating in the nearly bare room. Bellamy heaves Murphy up by his thighs, still held snug around his waist.

"That can be arranged." 

**Author's Note:**

> this was set before and after the wedding, but dont worry at some point i will write an actual fic for that....at some point....(i still have to work on the highschool au which is going pretty slow im sorry my middle name is procrastinate) this was basically just a shitty last minute hash of tiny headcanons i guess?? Dont look at me im not in charge here


End file.
